Roaring wildly into his ears, Reggie felt the tumultuous applause of the galleries. Dazed, groggy, Gladiator Vanderveer was rising to his feet, a thin ribbon of blood trickling from his helmet.
Gladiator Vanderveer waved his huge sword in mighty arcs, making sounds like a maddened bull ape.
Reggie gulped, almost swallowing his tongue. “What is there about me,” he whispered to himself, “that the males in the Vanderveer line don’t like?”
And then, somehow, his hand was freed of the tangling net. Reggie wasted no time. He turned, dashing away from the trumpeting figure of the gladiator like a startled whippet. Reggie’s hand had been freed, but not his feet. Seven strides, and his foot was jerked out from under him, spilling him to the ground. The net meshings had tripped him up!
Reggie’s nose was in the dirt of the arena. A fact which wasn’t enhanced by the blood that covered the ground, and the fact that his small dagger had been knocked from his hand in the fall.
And in that horrible instant, while Time held its breath, Reggie remembered his resolve. He had to get to the box of Julius Caesar. He had to mess up Time in some slight fashion before he was slain by the gladiator!
Reggie clambered hastily to his feet. He felt the hot breath of Gladiator Vanderveer on his neck and dodged quickly, as the gigantic warrior thundered by him. Then, looking wildly around, Reggie spied the gala trappings of an ornate box along the side of the arena. There were no other boxes decorated in such lavish fashion.
Instantly Reggie knew that if he were to get to Julius Caesar, he would find him in that box. Gladiator Vanderveer, probably Tiberius Vanderveer, had pulled up to a stop, panting like some huge elephant, and was heading again for Reginald Vliet.
Reggie streaked to the side of the Arena. Streaked for the gaily covered box where the dignitaries of Rome were watching. Behind him, bellowing terribly, followed Gladiator Vanderveer.
As he raced madly toward the box, Reggie realized that he would have to choke Caesar to death, inasmuch as he was now without his dagger. The thought was repulsive to him. He had never killed a man. But Caesar was due to die sooner or later anyway. And what the hell—this was Vliet’s Last Stand, Reginald’s Final Act!
Three feet from the box, Reggie broke his stride into a magnificent leap—which was definitely unsuccessful, since the box was a full ten feet from the ground!
Reggie had the infinitely painful sensation of badly barked shins and bruised elbows. Then he was flat on his back, gasping skyward, the breath knocked out of him completely.
And then a heavy foot landed on his chest, and he was gazing in terror at the glowering features of Gladiator Vanderveer who was looking down at him. Caught!
While the crowds gave vent to their blood-screams, Reggie’s swimming eyes brought into focus the gala-colored box for the first time. And for the first time, looking despairingly at the faces of those who sat there, Reggie saw that Julius Caesar was not present.
This was the payoff, the final irony. His mad dash, culminated by failure, and topped off by the fact that the mighty Caesar was absent—probably home with a cold!
Gladiator Vanderveer was making grunting noises, while bringing his heavy foot down again and again on Reggie’s chest. And as gladiator thumped with his foot, he waved his huge sword and looked to the gaily covered box. And then Reggie remembered…
The gladiator was asking whether it would be thumbs up or thumbs down—an old Roman custom!
A girl rose in the box. Reggie had noticed her vaguely while searching for Caesar, but now her features became clear for the first time. She was Cleopatra!
It came to Reggie, in a sudden wave of horror, that as guest of honor in the arena, it was Cleopatra’s privilege to point her pretty thumb upward or downward over fallen gladiatorial contestants. It was her privilege to say whether he would live or die.
Anthony was beside her, Reggie saw this too from his place on the ground. And Anthony, face black with wrathful scorn, was whispering in Cleopatra’s ear.
“It isn’t fair!” Reggie bleated muffledly. “Influencing a referee’s decision!”
But obviously Anthony had done just that. For Cleopatra’s pretty white hand lifted, thumb extended, and the thumb then pointed sharply downward!
The jerk of her hand was hard, sharp, positive. Death to Reggie Vliet, misplaced gladiator!
The voice of the crowd became a sudden wild scream.
Reggie closed his eyes, waiting for the sword to descend, to sever his head from his body. Nothing happened. Gladiator Vanderveer seemed to be hesitating. Reggie opened his eyes and saw why.
In Cleopatra’s sharp gesture with her thumb, two rings and a bauble had slid from her wrist and fingers, had fallen to the dust of the arena. Gladiator Vanderveer, gallant to the core, had taken his shoes from Reggie’s chest and was bending to retrieve them before getting them bloody with a death stroke.
Catching the gleam of the bauble which had fallen from her wrist, Reggie’s heart turned cartwheels. It was the wrist-watch-like Time Machine. With a squeal, he was struggling to his feet, diving toward the gleaming, clocklike bauble.
He got his hands on it by a superb dive, like a halfback recovering a fumble. Got his hands on it as he heard Gladiator Vanderveer bellow in astonishment and rage. Reggie closed his eyes, turning the dial on the tiny Time Machine, pressing the button at the same instant.
He thought he heard the swish of a sword above his head, and then he felt that familiar dropping sensation.
The rushing, roaring torrent of sound swept around him instantly. For a shocked, split second he saw Cleopatra’s deep liquid eyes widen incredulously. Then oblivion claimed him.…
* * * *
When Reggie opened his eyes again it was in strong sunlight. He blinked owlishly and peered about. He was seated on the summit of a grass-covered hill. At the foot of the hill, miles away, he could see a majestic city, impressive and mighty, sprawled under the clear blue sky.
Understanding came to Reggie in big chunks. He glanced quickly at his time machine, set for the year 410 A.D. It had saved him, with seconds to spare from the wrath of the Vanderveer gladiator.
Reggie shivered in the warm air. He thought of Cleopatra and Anthony and his sad failure to change the history of their lives. It occurred to him suddenly that they were both dead for centuries by this time. Dead, and already the history of their love had been recorded and nothing he or anyone else could do would change it.
“Pretty much of a flop on that deal,” Reggie muttered to himself. “If I don’t do better pretty soon I might as well give up the ghost. I’ve got only four more chances.” He wiped his hand over his forehead and suddenly he started trembling. A horrible thought had burst upon him. He had almost been killed in the arena. If Cleopatra hadn’t dropped the Time Machine right in front of his nose he’d have been a goner.
Reggie wiped his suddenly damp hands on the abbreviated toga he was wearing. It was all happened five hundred years ago but that was still too close for comfort. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, still trembling nervously from his narrow escape. He couldn’t forget the fact, however, that he had failed. Failed miserably to reroute the course of history by so much as one historical inch. He was as far away from his goal as when he started back into time.
A great feeling of futility stole over Reggie as he thought about the Vanderveer gladiator, with the unmistakable Vanderveer jaw. It was slightly encouraging to realize that the Vanderveer family tree had its share of sour apples but it was damned discouraging not to be able to do something about it.
Reggie squared his shoulders. The stern gritty stuff in him came to the fore.
“I won’t miss the next time,” he vowed grimly, “I’ll disrupt things so badly that they’ll have to rewrite America’s Sixty Families from cover to cover to keep up with me.”
&
nbsp; He looked down at the magnificent metropolis spread out beneath him. Why—that’s Rome, he realized excitedly. Mighty Rome, Mistress of the Mediterranean, Ruler of the known World, at the height of her wealth and power…
He wheeled and shaded his eyes with his hand. Off in the opposite distance from Rome his questing gaze was rewarded. There spread over acres of ground was a sprawling, barbaric camp. Even at that great distance, Reggie could recognize wild Asiatic horses, tethered in herds away from the numberless tents that dotted the ground.
Reggie trembled with excitement. He knew he was looking at the savage armies and retinue of Alaric, the mighty Gothic warrior, who had sacked and destroyed Rome in the year—his heart leaped—in the year 410! He remembered the date from his school days. It was said that the sacking of Rome and the dissolution of the Roman Empire was one of the most significant events in all history.
Reggie’s heart began to thump faster. Supposing—supposing he could change that—prevent Alaric from sacking Rome? It would change the entire course of the world. Hope began to burn again in Reggie’s heart. A change of such consequence would unhorse the Vanderveers, for all time, from their snobbish seats of heredity and background.
Reggie spat on his hand and squared his jaw.
“Alaric,” he muttered, “here I come!”
* * * *
The distance to Alaric’s camp was farther than it looked, and, by the time Reggie reached its outskirts, the sun was dropping like a brass ball on the horizon.
Reggie approached the camp cautiously. He debated whether he should barge right in or whether it might be wiser to slip in quietly. Before he could make up his mind, however, the decision was taken out of his hands.
He heard a furious, hungry yapping behind him. He looked and saw two massive slavering dogs charging toward him, their blood-thirsty baying growing louder by the second.
A hero or an imbecile might have accepted their definitely unfriendly approach as something in the nature of a challenge to be faced and rebuffed; but, fortunately for Reggie, he was neither of the above.
He wheeled and ran. His torn and dusty toga stretched out behind him as his thin legs went into action. Down the short stretch leading to Alaric’s camp, he raced. The baying grew behind him. Other mastiffs, entering the spirit of the thing, were joining the chase. Reggie risked a terrified glance behind him, saw that the drooling fangs of the nearest dog were but inches from his flying heels.
“Help!” he screeched. “Help!”
He was streaking into the camp proper now, a round dozen hounds yapping at his heels. From the corners of his rolling eyes, Reggie caught a confused blur of bearded men emerging from tents, weapons clutched in their fists. A crescendo of sound rose from the camp as the screams of the women and the yowlings of the dogs blended into a mad unholy cacophony.
In spite of his frantic efforts to remove himself from the dog’s menu as a supper special, Reggie was able to realize that he had not chosen the most ideal manner in which to creep into Alaric’s heart.
He glanced desperately over his shoulder. The dogs were almost upon him. It was at that precise instant that something gave way in Reggie’s overworked knees. He wasn’t conscious of falling. One minute he was racing along and the instant his face was plowing into the dust.
He heard shouts and angry barking intermingled horribly. He buried his head in his hands. “This is the fitting end for a hot-dog addict,” he thought fleetingly. But the barks came no closer.
Reggie remained in his ostrich-like position for several dark seconds and then he cautiously raised his head. The dogs were a scant ten feet away, snarling and growling at him, but venturing no closer. Then Reggie saw the reason for this.
A tall, magnificent woman, dressed in a very unconcealing leather garment, was slashing at them with a short blunt whip and shouting angrily.
Reggie stared at her, fascinated. Muscles rippled up and down her bare back as her sinewy arm rose and fell the whip. The dogs were slinking away under her onslaught and Reggie didn’t blame them.
In a matter of seconds it was all over.
Reggie stood up and tried to brush himself off. A score or so of bearded barbarians watched him with impassive eyes but the woman who had driven the dogs away was openly curious.
“Where you from?” she asked with commendable directness.
Reggie looked into her strong handsome face and into her childlike brown eyes and smiled. “Oh, nowhere in particular.” He glanced up the road he had just been chased. “Kind of sporty course you got here. Does everybody get a crack at it, or is it reserved for specials?”
The girl spread her lips in imitation of Reggie’s smile. Then she walked to his side and took his arm. “Come,” she said, “I like you.”
Reggie shrugged. It might be a good idea to ingratiate himself with this girl. She might be some chieftan’s daughter. “Sure thing, old kid,” he said brightly. He patted himself mentally on the back. This kid might be the daughter of Alaric himself. “Lead on,” he said.
She led him to her tent. It was a larger tent than the others and was comfortably lined with cured pelts. Heavy bear and wolf-pelts covered the dirt floor and in one corner of the tent a pot was suspended over a smoldering fire.
“Neat,” Reggie said appreciatively, “but not gaudy.”
The girl motioned him to sit on the floor and she turned to the steaming kettle and poured a ladle full of greenish soup into a copper bowl. This she placed in front of Reggie.
“Say,” Reggie said, “what’s this Alaric like?”
The girl looked at him intently and then shrugged her shoulders. “You will see,” she answered listlessly.
“Now look,” Reggie said, “what about this raid, he’s thinking of pulling on Rome? Is it all set?”
The girl’s brow knitted. “No, no,” she said. “No bother Rome.”
Reggie smiled knowingly. “That’s what you think. I happen to know it’s going to be pulled off pretty soon.”
The girl struggled to grasp his words. Then she shook her head again.
Reggie frowned, puzzled. History very definitely recorded the sacking of Rome by Alaric, yet this girl knew nothing of it. Maybe Alaric was the strong, silent type who kept everything to himself.
“When do I get to meet Alaric?” he asked between sips of soup.
“Soon,” the girl answered, “he be home soon.”
“That’s nice,” Reggie said absently, “but where’s his home?”
“Here. Here home.”
“Here?” Reggie repeated. “Why then you must be his daughter.”
The girl shook her head. “No. Wife.”
Reggie strangled on a mouthful of soup. “Wife?” he sputtered. “Why didn’t you tell me? What’ll he think if he finds me here?”
The girl shook her head dolefully. “He won’t like.”
“Oh my God,” Reggie cried. He scrambled to his feet. “Anthony… and now Alaric.” He turned beseechingly to the girl. “What’ll I do? You’ve got to help me.”
He noticed a shadow, a large shadow fall across the tent.
“It is late, too late,” the girl said, sighing, “I like you too.”
“You mean,” Reggie babbled, “that—”
He wheeled as the flap of the tent opened and a heavy-set figure stalked into the tent. The new arrival was a squat, massive character with thick, inch-long brows and savage pig-like eyes. It was Alaric!
Reggie stared. Not at the powerful muscles, not at the savage, hot eyes but at something far more stunning, far more astounding.
He stared at Alaric’s jaw. It was square and solid and massive. It was as wide and flat as a shovel. In short, it was a Vanderveer jaw!
“Incredible,” Reggie breathed, “another Vanderveer.”
Alaric
breathed noisily through a flat nose and his Vanderveer jaw hardened. His hot gaze swept from his wife to Reggie. They stopped on Reggie, riveted themselves there.
His huge hand closed over an ax in his leather belt.
“I kill!” he growled.
Reggie had never gotten along with a Vanderveer in his entire life and he was not exactly surprised at Alaric’s lack of cordiality. Nonetheless, he protested. “Really,” he said nervously, “you’re being awfully hasty. Maybe we could kind of talk this thing over.”
“Kill!” Alaric growled again, and this time his voice was trembling with rage.
Reggie had vast respect for the Vanderveer temper and he realized that he was facing the great-grand-daddy of all Vanderveer outbursts.
“Now—” he started, but he got no farther.
Alaric’s arm rose in the air and at the same instant a strong pair of arms hurled Reggie to the floor. He squirmed his neck just in time to see the ax hurtle through the air and rip through the wall of the tent. Crawling to his feet, he dodged Alaric’s first maddened rush. He ducked to one side and collided with the make-shift stove in the corner of the tent. The heavy kettle of boiling soup swung precariously. Reggie grabbed the handle to keep it from spilling.
He was in that position as Alaric rushed him the second time. Reggie was hardly conscious of lifting the kettle from the rack; hardly conscious of swinging it in a circle over his head and letting it fly.
But he was conscious of Alaric’s maniacal screams some tenth of a second later as a gallon or so of boiling soup baptized him.
He was conscious of the girl pulling his arm, jerking him to the rent in the tent caused by Alaric’s ax. “Go,” she said tensely. “I think he might get a little mad now.”
“You think?” Reggie cried, “I know!”
He scrambled through the hole in the tent and raced into the darkness. Back in the tent he could hear Alaric bawling at the top of his voice and he could hear shouts and cries arising from all sides, as the men hurried to the voice of their leader. Dogs, yapping and yowling, added to the din, but over it all he could hear the shrill terrified neigh of the wild horses.
The Second Time Travel Megapack: 23 Modern and Classic Stories Page 49